


Counting The Seconds

by mouth_breather011



Series: Time Forever Frozen Still [Irondad & Spiderson Oneshots] [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Dark Irondad, Dark Tony Stark, Evil Tony Stark, Kidnapped Peter Parker, No Sex, No Smut, Possessive Tony Stark, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Sad Peter Parker, Scared Peter Parker, Stockholm Syndrome, Tony Stark Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouth_breather011/pseuds/mouth_breather011
Summary: Knowledge is power. Control the knowledge, control the people.But Peter wasn't being controlled.(at least he didn't think so)He was safe, being kept from the outside world so the world couldn't hurt him.Keeping the world out so he couldn't hurt it.39784 . . . 39785 . . . 39786 . . .Peter was a danger.Peter was in danger.Peter was safe.(was he?)* * *Peter is left to dwell in his own thoughts when Tony is away on an unprecedented mission.**NOT STARKER**
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Time Forever Frozen Still [Irondad & Spiderson Oneshots] [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559569
Comments: 7
Kudos: 213





	Counting The Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a little weird. Not sure I like it. Eh, oh well. Tony is evil, Peter is precious, ending is weird. Formatting is off, sorry.
> 
> Ps. This is not starker. Ew, no this is supposed to be irondad and spiderson. This one is mostly just angst, tho.

39659 . . . 39660 . . . 39661 . . . 

Sometimes, the ability to think is a curse rather than a blessing.

If Peter couldn't think, then he wouldn't notice the absence, and he wouldn't feel the need to count the seconds until that absence was filled. He wouldn't be able to.

Brain dead. Sometimes Peter wished he was brain dead.

That was a cruel way of thinking, though. So many people had to live with that disability, not even being able to wish they could think straight. And then here's a fifteen year old boy wishing he could get rid of the mind they weren't able to crave. 

Ungrateful. Ungrateful.

39711 . . . 39712 . . . 39713 . . . 

This was why Peter deserved punishment.

Why he wasn't allowed simple pleasures. Such as the presence of others. Or seeing the outside world. Or entertaining himself with new knowledge.

Knowledge is power. Control the knowledge, control the people.

But Peter wasn't being controlled.

(at least he didn't think so)

He was safe, being kept from the outside world so the world couldn't hurt him.

Keeping the world out so he couldn't hurt it.

39784 . . . 39785 . . . 39786 . . . 

Peter was a danger.

Peter was in danger.

Peter was safe.

(was he?)

Yes . . . yes, he was being kept safe. Safe and sound, safe and sound, safe and sound . . . 

Where is Tony?

Peter stood up from his place on the cold concrete floor, slowly padding up to the thick metal door. Cold, bare feet slapping gently. Hands carefully curling into fists. Loose clothes swaying softly.

The boy laid the side of his head against the cool metal, ears straining to hear. He had done this countless times (127, now 128), and he knew that his super hearing no longer worked. Peter thought it was still worth a try.

Silence.

39928 . . . 39929 . . . 39930 . . . 

Peter sighed and moved back to his spot on the ground. He fell with a soft plop, crossing his legs and twisting his arms together. His room (cell) was never warm enough. No amount of talking to Tony could make him turn up the heat.

The boy considered getting up to grab the thick blanket on his simple bed, but decided against it. Tony would be back soon.

(would he?)

He resorted to humming while he threaded the hem of his shirt through his fingers. The shirt was worn and gray, thick enough to provide comfort, but not enough to warm him up. It reached down past Peter's hands, and it hung loosely off his shoulders. The pants he wore were no different. Simple and gray, enough to provide comfort but not enough to warm up, loosely hanging and long.

Peter considered himself lucky to at least have clothes. How much worse it would have been if he didn't . . .

40004 . . . 40005 . . . 40006 . . . 

Tony was late. Why was Tony late?

Peter didn't remember a time when Tony had ever been this late. Or at least this late without reason.

The last time Peter waited this long, he knew he had deserved it. He had tried to escape.

Tony had been kind enough to add a mattress to the bed frame the boy had been "sleeping" on for however long he had been there (4 months, 1 week, 3 days, 28907 seconds). He apparently had trusted Peter enough by then, and had left the door open while he lugged in the mattress and worked to set it up.

Peter was meant to sit and watch like a good boy.

(but he wasn't good. not enough)

He had slipped out into the hall, catching a glimpse of it for the first time.

A flash of blinding pain. An enraged yell. A terrified scream.

There had been no plan. A last-second decision.

That was the first mistake.

Hands gripping his biceps. Fingers bruising his skin. A face painted with obvious anger.

Peter fingered the little devices on both of his wrists. He flinched, keeping his gaze on the door.

The contraptions were ingenious. Unbreakable metal, as thin as paper and half an inch in width. Digging into his skin, almost like tattoos. They no longer bled from the pressure.

40147 . . . 40148 . . . 40149 . . . 

The skin around the bands was slightly charred, vein-like streaks cutting up his forearms. Scars from the burns.

This was Peter's consequence. 

Searing pain emanating from his wrists. A voice scolding him harshly. Tears soaking pale cheeks.

For a while, after Peter's failed escape attempt, as well as some other bad moments (ambushing Tony as he came into the room), Tony would make sure to shock the boy before entering the room. When he would leave the room, he would electrocute him until he was safely on the other side of the locked door.

Not anymore, though. It took time, but Peter earned Tony's trust back. Now he was only shocked when he disobeyed.

(never, no, never again. be a good boy)

Peter had waited 3 days, 19 hours, and 65879 seconds for Tony to return after the stunt he had pulled. 

He waited that long for food and water to fill him up.

He waited that long wasting away faster, lonelier than before.

To say it was not fun was an understatement.

40230 . . . 40231 . . . 40232 . . . 

No, Peter would never disobey Tony again. Never, never, never.

He would be a good boy.

He would make Tony proud.

Peter concentrated harder on the metal door. The metal door that still wasn't opening. The one that Tony was supposed to walk through exactly 11748 seconds ago.

The boy stood up suddenly. He bolted forward and banged on the door once. 

A flinch. No response. Another bang.

"Come back!" Peter screamed, his voice cracking from misuse. "P-Please, what did I do? Come b-back!"

He continued to bang on the door with both fists, tears flooding down his cheeks as he bruised his cold hands. Peter went for a kick, stubbing his toe violently.

He fell to the floor in a heap, crumpled up by the door that was in his way. The poor boy cradled his throbbing hands, his foot pulsing weirdly as he let it rest upon the cold floor.

40425 . . . 40426 . . . 40427 . . .

A sob bubbled past Peter's clenched lips. Tony wasn't coming. Tony wasn't going to comfort him, and hug him to the point that Peter wanted to pull away but couldn't. Tony hated him.

(he knew it. he knew it all along)

More cries escaped his hoarse throat as he continued to fall deeper into the depths of his mind. 

Tony wasn't coming back because Peter was a horrible person. He had failed to make him proud, failed to be good, failed to be the perfect son Tony told him to be. Tony was going to leave Peter in his room to rot, just like he deserved. 

Tony always knew what Peter deserved. Tony was always right.

That's what he said to Peter.

The boy knew this was credible. Tony would tell him things, and those things would happen. 

Tony said if Peter was good, he would be rewarded.

Peter was good and he was rewarded.

Tony said if Peter was bad, he would be punished.

Peter was bad and he was punished.

Tony said the world would continue on just fine without Peter in it.

The world had yet to go down in flames (according to Tony), so that was true, too.

Tony said Peter was going to be his son.

Peter tried. Peter tried to be Tony's son, live up to his expectations and be the perfect angel he knew he needed to be. For Tony. Because Tony was good, and kind, and true.

(control the knowledge—)

Peter had failed. And now Tony was gone.

The boy curled into himself tighter, clenching his hands. An attempt to ground himself with the pain of his fingernails biting flesh. Tony always made sure to cut his nails. Always for him, so Peter couldn't hurt himself.

(or Tony, because Tony didn't trust him—)

40598 . . . 40599 . . . 40600 . . . 

"Please come back . . ."

* * * * *

The night was long and hard. 

Peter's stomach growled, and the boy growled right back at it.

Tony hadn't come to feed him since the night before yesterday (128945 seconds), which left the boy very hungry and tired.

The lights flickered on, and Peter restarted his counting.

1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 

Tony would be here in 3596 seconds. Today was a Friday, when meant he would be able to see Peter in the morning.

If he showed up.

Peter was still lying prone on the ground beneath the door. The urge to move did not strike him as tempting. Instead, he remained still, except for his still-ragged breathing.

His face itched with dry tears. The back of his throat burned with unshed ones. Lethargism kept his eyes from staying open.

34 . . . 35 . . . 36 . . .

Peter couldn't bear to stay awake any longer. Eventually, his mind slipped into the abyss of darkness.  
It didn't seem like very long when the metal door behind him retracted into the wall, and long legs were tripping over him.

Peter sat up gasping, leaning on one hand while the other clutched his ribs. He glared down at the ground like it had been the one to trip over him.

"Oh, Peter, buddy."

A gentle whisper. Calloused hands cradling his cheeks, forcing him to look up. A set of chocolate-brown eyes to mirror his own.

Tony's face was pulled down into a frown, his bottom lip pouting slightly as he stared down at the boy. The younger reached his hands up to grasp the man's wrists.

"T-Tony," he sobbed, the waterworks threatening to start up again. "I m-missed you so much."

"I know, Underoos. I'm so sorry, I was called on a last minute mission and didn't get a chance to see you again," he murmured, pulling Peter into a tight embrace. Peter clutched him back, digging his wet face into the man's neck. Tony's hand ran up and down his back, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt.

"I th-thought I'd done something to m-make you m-mad."

Tony shook his head and pulled back, gripping the boy's shoulders a little too tight for comfort. "No, no, no, of course not! You've been so good for me lately."

Peter offered him a watery smile, which the man lovingly returned full force. "There's my happy boy."

Another breathtaking hug. This one much longer and more suffocating.

Eventually, Tony stood up, reaching under Peter's arms and lifting him up off the ground.

(he could stand very well, thank you—)

Slipping his arms behind the boy's back and under his legs, Tony lifted Peter into a bridal carry and padded over to the bed in the corner. Tony lay down his "son," then climbed under the covers with him.

(get out, get out, get out)

The man pulled Peter back into his arms, turning the boy so that his face was near his arc reactor. A hand through his curly brown locks. An arm resting under his back and wrapped around his torso. A kiss on his forehead.

"I love you, Pete."

The covers were suffocating him. He couldn't breath. He needed more space.

The hug grew tighter.

"What do you say, Peter?" Tony prompted, squeezing harder ever-so-slightly.

(stopstopstopstopstop—)

"I-I love you, t-too."

Tighter. Too tight. Please stop—

" . . . Dad."

1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . .

**Author's Note:**

> See what I mean? Weird ending. I wrote it in the middle of the night and I was trying to be quick, oops. Sue me.


End file.
